


Little Knight

by Rubynye



Category: Lord of the Rings (2001 2002 2003)
Genre: M/M, Minas Tirith, Nonmonogamy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-09
Updated: 2010-01-09
Packaged: 2017-10-06 01:27:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/48227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rubynye/pseuds/Rubynye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cousins and changes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Little Knight

It had been a good day, and Frodo was very grateful for good days. A helpful page, a boy not overmuch taller than Pippin, had volunteered to stagger along after Frodo through the paved streets of Minas Tirith, carrying three large books from the library; Frodo carried the fourth and smallest, a collection of finely written poetry in Sindarin, bound in butter-soft black. People smiled and bowed as Frodo passed, and he saluted as many as he could, but fortunately none stopped him to call him "Ringbearer"---the very term made his hand ache---or otherwise fawn over him. Eagerly he thought ahead to the house the hobbits shared, where he could take notes or merely sit up in bed and read as he had used to, a year ago and a life away.

On reaching the house Frodo dismissed the page and set his book down atop the pile; once the boy had left he blew out the breath he'd been holding and sat down heavily in one of the cut-down chairs, gulping air, muscles aching. Frodo might have had a good day, but he was not as he had been a year before.

"Hullo, Frodo." Pippin dropped into the chair next to him, a heel of bread in his hand, looking as exhausted as Frodo felt; Frodo blinked at the young soldier beside him, clad in the silver and black of Gondor, ever-surprising lines of care etched in a face framed by curlier chestnut hair than Frodo was used to. Pippin's familiar green eyes shone out of that changed face with an unfamiliar calm, as he chewed on the bread, as he noted and wryly returned Frodo's gaze. "Merry's still up there," Pippin said, a hand carelessly waved in the direction of the Tower. "I was a little winded, so the King put on his healer crown and dismissed me to rest. Where's Sam?"

"With Lord Faramir and Legolas, looking at neglected gardens and unusual plants." Frodo smiled, remembering the struggle it had been to convince Sam to take a day for himself (and to get out of that much tramping around); Pippin nodded and stood up, so unexpectedly tall, stripping off his overtunic and folding it carefully, and Frodo watched him, marveling anew at how changed his cousin was, how much firmer, how much more deliberate.

Then Pippin took off the shirt of mail and the undertunics, and Frodo gasped, once more shocked at the scars on a body his eyes and hands and mouth remembered as smooth and unblemished. Pippin smiled again, that new wry smile, and laid his garb aside to turn to Frodo, his right hand tracing a long cool line along Frodo's shoulder. "None of us are unscarred, are we?" he said in a low, grave, unPippinlike voice.

Frodo looked up at his little cousin. To say _but you should be!_ would be to dishonor Pippin's scars, and the deeds he had done to earn them. "No," Frodo replied, smiling sadly, and Pippin leaned down and kissed him, and at least that felt as sharply sweet as it ever had, Pippin's rosebud mouth curving against his. Then Pippin stood up, and his green eyes gleamed with mischief as of old. "We could count each other's scars," he suggested brightly, and Frodo rolled his eyes, replying, "You were sent home to rest, Peregrin Took, and rest you shall."

"But the Ent-draughts made _everything_ grow, don't you want to see?" Pippin paused expectantly; Frodo merely quirked an eyebrow, and Pippin stuck out his lower lip, scooped up his uniform, and bounced away. Frodo had to look carefully to see the effort in the bounces.

Frodo sat for a moment longer, catching his breath and reminding himself that he had also come home to rest; then he pushed himself out of the chair and down the hall, knocked on Pippin's door and went in. Pippin lay in bed, wrapped in a nightshirt and looking so very young; Frodo dusted his feet off and slid into the bed beside him. "Care for some company?"

"I always care for yours," Pippin replied, pushing his curls against Frodo's chest. "We missed you. I missed you."

Frodo meant to reply lightly, but what came from his mouth was, "I missed you both. Terribly." Pippin's arms wound around Frodo as he spoke, longer than they'd been. "I thought I would never see either of you again."

"We knew you and Sam would bring each other back." Pippin's voice only quavered once. "I just....Frodo, do you remember the Battle of Fornost?" Frodo nodded into Pippin's curls, and Pippin continued. "When I was learning my Shire history, sometimes I thought of what it must have been like for those archers, to go to that battle and realize they'd never return home. Before the Black Gates, I thought I had found out."

"I thought I knew every day out of Rivendell." Frodo tightened his arms round Pippin, who looped one long leg over Frodo's. "I never expected to live to see Minas Tirith, to see you and Merry become warriors, to see Sam so changed. I never expected to survive, It."

Pippin nodded. "Merry told me, when we were in Ithilien, that he had thought, almost, that he might be the only one going home." Pippin's voice quavered much more on those words. "My poor Merry."

"My brave Merry," Frodo replied. "My brave Pippin." Pippin looked up at that, green eyes familiar and beautiful and dark, and kissed Frodo, curling round him, but now there was a fair bit more of Pippin to coil round Frodo, even though he was thin and sharp-boned as ever. There had been a time early on, before Pippin finished growing, when Pippin had needed to tilt his head back, tossing his hair and baring his neck, whenever he claimed a kiss from Merry or Frodo or whichever tween was his kissing-friend that week; now Pippin held Frodo's face with one firm, sword-callused hand, and Frodo found his head tilting back, even though they were lying down. Then Frodo felt Pippin's other hand undoing his shirt buttons, and he laughed into the kiss as he broke it, reaching up to push that hand away. "I'm not tumbling with you, Pippin. You should be resting."

"I'm lying down," Pippin insisted, and Frodo laughed again and sat up against the head of the bed. "Give an old hobbit a chance to rest, then."

"You are not old, Frodo." Pippin made a face at Frodo and flopped dramatically across his lap with a wounded sigh. "And you're not dead, and neither am I. I'm full of life, and it's springtime, and I want you."

"Only you, Pippin, could go from talking of the Battle of Fornost to pleading for a tup." Frodo stroked the chestnut curls nevertheless; Pippin brought his feet up to brush Frodo's, and Frodo shivered a little with delight that he could feel Pippin's foot-curls brushing the soles of his feet, which had been numb only two days before. Pippin made another, though less dramatic face; then his expression settled down into thoughtfulness, and he reached for Frodo's free hand. "Truth be told," he said in a small but steady voice, "I'd rather not sleep."

"Foul dreams." Frodo suppressed an apology, a cry of _none of this should have befallen you, my little cousin_, and merely nodded and squeezed Pippin's hand. "Every night?"

"No, not every. Merry and I tend to take turns." The rosebud mouth was set in a grim line. "You and Sam?"

"We tend to take turns, too." Frodo didn't add that Sam didn't wake him; he could tell by the swift change in Sam's breathing in the night, the light kisses and occasional hot tear or two that fell on his face when Sam would lean over him to reassure himself that Frodo was alive and they had done their Task and life was for living again. Frodo didn't need to; Pippin nodded and said, "he tries not to wake me. I used to try not to wake him, but I realized it never works. But he still tries."

Frodo nodded, and kept stroking Pippin's curls. They were thicker and springier, just a little, but Frodo had been stroking these curls ever since they first grew, and twining his fingers in them for, what, nearly ten years now? He could feel the difference. Pippin lay with his newfound quiet, simply breathing and holding Frodo's hand, for a long moment, before he spoke again, his voice even lower. "Today, on guard duty, I heard...another pocket of orcs were sighted and pursued. They were wiped out, of course, but the soldiers brought, well, proof, when they came to report. And I escorted them in to report to the King. So...I think I have a bad dream coming. I can feel it."

"Oh, Pippin." Frodo's suppressed cry of distress leaked into his voice, and Pippin gave him a stern look in reply. "I'm a knight, Frodo. And I'm fortunate to be alive. I can bear a few bad dreams."

"I don't know if I can bear your having them," Frodo said softly, and Pippin sat up to pull him into those long arms. Frodo nestled his face into Pippin's neck, Pippin's pulse beating beneath his lips, and just felt that pulse, which had so nearly been stilled, felt Pippin's arms around him and Pippin's hands firm on his back, felt a hot tear roll down his face onto Pippin's tender throat. "I don't know if I can bear it, that you and Merry have these dark dreams, these scars, these wounds. All that befell my Sam was horrible enough, but---" Frodo's voice broke, and he bit down on a sob, as another tear splashed against Pippin's neck.

Pippin held him for a moment, stroking his hair as Frodo had done just a little while before; finally he said, speaking slowly at first, "Merry finished the work they started, you know." _Who?_ Frodo thought hazily, but soon enough Pippin continued. "Merry and the Lady Eowyn struck down the Witch-King, whom our archers went to the Battle of Fornost to fight. And I managed to do a few things that needed doing, here and there. We couldn't have done any of this if we hadn't come with you, Frodo, nor could we have met Lady Galadriel or Boromir, Treebeard or Mistress Goldberry." Pippin gently pushed Frodo back a little, to look down into his eyes, a hand warm on Frodo's cheek; Frodo blinked damp eyes up at him. "But you're so changed," Frodo couldn't help but say, his voice quavering in his ears.

"For good as well as ill," Pippin replied, his smile so sweet it hurt Frodo's heart; then that smile turned cheeky as he angled his hips upward a bit, tucking his legs round Frodo. "Those Ent-draughts worked wonders, after all."

Frodo laughed helplessly. He always did. "Pippin Took, Knight of Gondor, you should be resting," he insisted, knowing it was fruitless even as Pippin's other hand trailed down his spine. "I can never deny you aught, Pip, can I?"

"Why do you even try?" Pippin asked, green eyes sparkling as he leaned forward, and Frodo laughed into the kiss.

There had been a time when, more likely than not, Frodo would have pushed Pippin onto his back and kissed him firmly, and Pippin would have laughed and pushed back but not enough to roll them over again, writhing delightfully beneath Frodo. Now Frodo let Pippin push him onto his back and half-smother him with kisses, twining his fingers through those springier curls as Pippin undid his shirt and stroked it off with firm hands; Pippin's longer arms wrapped round Frodo so tightly his ribs could feel it, as Pippin kissed him with his old enthusiasm and his new strength.

Pippin kissed Frodo beneath his ear, drawing a happy moan out of him, but then kissed him again the base of his throat where the skin was still numb; Frodo only knew of the second kiss because Pippin's ear brushed his jaw, and his heart sank as Pippin kept trying, puzzled by his stillness. Frodo sighed, feeling himself going cool, as he thought of prying Pippin off, of how best to explain; when he gently pushed Pippin up by his shoulders, Pip's eyes were wide and worried. "Frodo, that used to---"

"It doesn't anymore." Pippin opened his mouth; Frodo jerkily shook his head, feeling his brow furrow, and when Pippin gazed at him mournfully he felt himself glaring back. "Don't look at me so," he hissed, not about to be pitied, not by his cousin, not in bed.

Pippin blinked, and then nodded, and reached up to draw a finger along the outer shell of Frodo's ear; Frodo took a deep, shaky breath and made himself smile, made his belly unknot. Pippin returned the smile, eyes still terribly uncertain, and laid his mouth to Frodo's ear, and Frodo felt the welcome surge of familiar heat and closed his eyes in relief. "Mmmm, Pip," he whispered, husky and grateful. "_That_ still works." Pippin nodded so Frodo could just feel it, nipping at Frodo's eartip and mouthing the outer shell of his ear, and Frodo leaned into Pippin's caressing mouth and warm arms and firm body until he felt roused enough again to reply with his own hands and mouth.

Even so, there was a little cool place within Frodo that wasn't quite catching fire, for all of Pippin's warmth and grace and eagerness and cleverness. Deliberately not thinking on it, Frodo kissed and nibbled his way down Pippin's body, pushing him onto his back, pushing the nightshirt up out of the way. Pippin twined his fingers in Frodo's hair and his legs round Frodo's back, at first with maddening gentleness, but Frodo called on all he could recall of what Pippin liked, and soon Pippin forgot Frodo's frailty and his own strength as he writhed beneath his cousin once again. Pippin's legs on his shoulders, Frodo sucked one velvety egg into his mouth and listened to Pippin's beautiful whimpering as those long fine fingers clutched his hair till it nearly tore out, and would have smiled if he could.

It went quickly after that. Afterwards, laying his head on Pippin's belly, Frodo coughed and licked bitter salt off his lips and thought that Pippin hadn't exaggerated the effect of the Ent-draught after all, and chuckled. "What're you laughin' at?" Pippin mumbled, already drowsy, and Frodo chuckled again as he pulled himself up to snuggle into Pippin's arms. "You nearly drowned me," Frodo answered, watching Pippin's eyelids droop, his smile unfurl. "If I didn't know better I'd think you hadn't been tumbled in a year."

Pippin opened his mouth as he lazily stroked Frodo's back; then his hand met Frodo's breeches and his eyes flew wide open. "Oh, but Frodo, you haven't even taken off---"

"Shhh." Frodo kissed Pippin to silence him, and when he drew back Pippin's eyes barely managed to open halfway. "Shhh. It's all right, my dear. This time was for you. You can owe me."

"I do," Pippin murmured, seriousness in those green eyes just before they fell shut. Frodo tucked Pippin's head up against his shoulder where Pippin's hair could warm his scar, and considered unbuttoning and taking himself in hand, but settled instead into resting with Pippin in his arms, watching as he sank into sleep; with his breath evening, his lips parting, the lines on his face smoothing away, Pippin looked so very young, but for the battle scars. After awhile Pippin's lips pressed together, his eyes rolling beneath their lids, and Frodo kissed his furrowed brow and stroked it, murmuring nonsense in a gentle voice, until Pippin calmed again. When he was sure his cousin's dark dream had passed, Frodo laid his head down beside Pippin's and closed his eyes, and thought of nothing but warmth and peace until his thoughts melted into warm peaceful sleep.


End file.
